


The Mighty King of Mirkwood

by Emerald_Leaves



Series: Of Fathers and Sons [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Reflection, Regret
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-16
Updated: 2015-02-16
Packaged: 2018-03-13 08:21:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3374444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emerald_Leaves/pseuds/Emerald_Leaves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Having survived countless years within Middle Earth, Thranduil believes himself strong. Only when he receives word of his son's quest and part in the Fellowship of the Ring does he come to understand what has truly given him strength.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Mighty King of Mirkwood

It was not easy for the Elvenking of Mirkwood to show much emotion other than scorn, anger, and arrogance anymore. He was old, one of the oldest elves that yet dwelled in Middle Earth, and with such age came a sense of privilege and distinction. True, he knew that should he ever feel compelled to sail to the West he would certainly be seen as a sapling, elves there able to dwarf his age. Yet here, in this Middle Earth, he was old, ancient, and having survived so long here was certainly an accomplishment. It was an honor. He had survived countless wars, survived all the horrors the world could shove in his face and always came out on top. 

Not only did his age demand respect, but his title as king certainly necessitated that he be given admiration. Not only was he an elven king of a prosperous, safe wood, he was the Elvenking, the last in Middle Earth, the king of the only safe haven within the most volatile forest in the land. Unlike Lórien where the elves roamed carelessly, feasting and singing in near ignorance of the world, the wood elves of Mirkwood enjoyed their lives knowing how hard their Elvenking fought, and still did, to protect them. Their merrymaking was more worth the having since they did not turn their back on the world. They fought to protect it, fought to save it, fought for the beauty, not abandoning it or ignoring its slow corruption.

Arrogance came easily as a byproduct of all he had accomplished in protecting his realm. For unlike the other elven lords and ladies left in this Middle Earth, the Elvenking did not use the protection of a magic Ring of Power. He did not need such a crutch. His realm remained safe and prosperous because of his power and will alone, not because he possessed magic trinkets tainted by the enemy. He did not need anything else to help him. It was just him. Just him on top. 

And so it was little wonder with all that he had accomplished in his long, ancient life that the Elvenking developed a sense of not just authority, but superiority when he looked out at others. His fellow elven lords were looked down upon in many respects by him for their weaknesses, for they talked much of action, yet rarely accomplished anything. They believed themselves so wise, so very noble, yet they hid in their valleys and trees like cowards. 

Mortals, too, received the Elvenking’s distain. Throughout his life, mortals had shown themselves frail and unreliable. They promised so much, yet never did their promises yield much fruit. Men were a nuisance as they never seemed to know when to stop breeding; spreading and corrupting the land with their squalor. Their lust for power made them foolish and overconfident. They fell so easily, their lives but a mere drop in the ocean of time. 

Dwarves especial held the Elvenking’s particular contempt, for he was there when the great Sindar city of Doriath fell. He watched as his home burned, his kin slaughtered before him, his people betrayed. His own mother had never come to these woods because of those foul creatures, cut down before his very eyes as she tried to flee from the unexpected attack. So many children had never had the chance to grow, so many lives not meant to die had been lost. 

The creatures of stone and earth were nothing but greedy traitors that deserved only eternal damnation. No matter what others told him, dwarves would always be counted among the enemy as far as he was concerned. While he would not actively hunt them as he did other foul creatures—not from the lack of wanting, but more because even he knew that they were useful in the war against Sauron in providing suitable distractions—they would always hold his abhorrence. Never would he trust them, not even if there were no other choices before him. 

No, the Elvenking of Mirkwood stood alone in his power, his strength, and his fight for peace. Allies were slow and did little as they sat in safety, promising much but giving nothing. Neutral creatures only blundered and got in the way of progress. In the end, there was only him. The others had all but abandoned him, never caring for his plight, that his home was slowly being devoured by darkness. He was alone now, but he’d come to realize, he always had been. 

His apathy for the rest of the peoples of Middle Earth had been rather slow in coming, but it was steady. The more others ignored him, the more they did nothing, the more the Elvenking found himself indifferent to them as well. After all, why should he care when they did not? Why should he risk his people by spreading them out to other kingdoms when they could be used here at home? Why should he seek to make alliances with mortals when all they ever did was betray and disappoint? 

Mirkwood, though dark, was still strong in the north, his people’s courage and bravery made it so. His strength, his guidance and cunning had protected the wood elves thus far. His insight into the world and how it really worked was what had saved the elves of Greenwood. His kin would have him believe that the world was still good and there was so much light left, but the Elvenking knew the truth. He watched day by day as everything faded into shadow. He knew that to trust others was to invited frustration and heartache. He knew their words were spoken in desperate hope only, not reality. 

So, as the Elvenking sat upon his throne, looking out over his vast kingdom, listening to the whispers of trees and the forest around him, sensing all the dangerous it contained, he could not help but be pleased with himself. The woods were calm today with little orc activity. It was not suspicious or unusual for there to be such lulls in their movements, so the Elvenking was unconcerned. He would take this day as a gift, his warriors could recuperate. And just maybe, maybe this was a sign of good fortune. Not that he would get his hopes up, but it was, after all, a possibility. 

Pushing his senses out farther, the Elvenking tried to detect elven movement in the darker places of the forest, where his power had long ago faded. Remnants of his presence lingered there, mere shadows of what once was, but he tried nonetheless to sense anything there. He was especially anxious today to hear news of a certain returning party. 

The Elvenking still did not know what had possessed him to aid that ranger, Lord Elrond’s adopted son, when he’d come here to Mirkwood with that revolting creature from the marshes. Perhaps it had been curiosity, perhaps it had been out of respect for Mithrandir, but whatever the reason, he had provided aid to Elrondion and watched the creature called Gollum. Inwardly the king scoffed at the idea of his peer adopting a mortal, but never said his thoughts out loud, knowing what this human represented. Elrond’s motivations, in the end, were just as much selfish as selfless. And so, continuing on in a similar vein, the Elvenking had housed the creature brought to him by the mortal because he saw in it a key, a key to the future.

But sons were what the Elvenking’s mind lingered on as he tried to brush aside his distaste for the ranger. Letting everything for the moment fade into the back of his mind, he turned his thoughts and attention to surveying the woods, hoping to find trace of the prince returning from Imladris. He did not know why he had allowed the child to go deliver a simple message that the creature Gollum had escaped, to remain a herald between his kingdom and Elrond’s, but in the end, he’d allowed the elfling to go.

Perhaps it was because Legolas had been responsible for the creature's escape to begin with. The Elvenking almost snorted as he remembered his son coming to him, pleading that he be allowed to take the creature out into the forest to walk. For whatever reason, his son had developed pity for the disgusting thing and wanted to ‘help’ it. The Elvenking had, of course, told his son in no short words that there was no helping such a being, so twisted and eaten away by evil, but of course the elfling would not listen. And now, because of his misplaced compassion, not only had the creature gotten away, but several good elves had perished, now waiting in the Halls of Mandos until the end of time, or whenever Námo saw fit to release them. 

Legolas, too, had been injured when that orc party had attacked, and had almost been part of the casualty list. The Elvenking, as befitting his station, had not only chastised the child, but treated him as he would any of his warriors who had been so careless. He had been stern, as a king should, and was pleased that the elfling had taken his punishment with the grace of the prince he was. He expected better from a Prince of the Woodland Realm. 

And so, when his greatest warrior― despite his youth― had wanted to take responsibility for his actions, had wanted to ride to Imladris with the message of the creature’s escape, the Elvenking supposed he had allowed it because he was pleased the prince was taking charge and was holding himself accountable for the incident. It was good that, despite being so young, the child was not of the illusion others of their race were and ignored the severity of his actions. Legolas knew and understood, just as the Elvenking expected. 

A whisper of the trees caught the Elvenking’s attention, and he knew that the party from Imladris had entered the wood. A pleased smile lifted the corners of the Elvenking’s lips. While of fair face, the act appeared almost sinister, the inward conceit of the king showing through, his haughty confidence shining in his eyes. He had known his party would arrive today, and he could not help being pleased with himself once more at his correct assumption. He was not so unwise as others would claim him to be. He might not have the gift of foresight, but he was certainly not blind. One did not need foresight to see the future, one merely had to look around themselves and see the signs given. 

And so, pleased that the party had returned, having missed the presence of some of Mirkwood’s greatest warriors, the Elvenking sat on his throne, waiting patiently for them to arrive. In a few hours, he would hear all they had to say, and then everything would return to the way it was supposed to be. While others blamed him for many things, none could fault him with impatience. The Elvenking could always wait, and he would always wait for just the perfect chance to strike. It was what made him an excellent ruler and a formidable foe. 

When the great gates finally opened several hours later, it was well into the evening. Normally the Elvenking would have retired some time ago, but he lingered on his throne that night. None could call anything he did anxious, for it did not show on his face. Internally, he would not call himself restless either, for he did not believe himself to be. He had merely wanted to know what had transpired in Imladris. Curiosity compelled him to wait. 

But as he gazed out into his kingdom, sharp eyes trailing the company that was coming towards him, the king’s lightly upturned lips stalled and turned downwards. For the closer they came, the more aware the Elvenking became of the lack of golden hair in the midst of all the brown and red. The prince was nowhere in sight. 

The group seemed almost surprised at having to report so late into the evening, but the golden haired elf king sat casually upon his throne, face neutral, as he waited. He watched seemingly apathetic as they bowed down before him, their clothes dusty from travel, some black blood that stained their tunics bespoke of a rough journey home. They were all here, the Elvenking noted, eyes burning into each of them, all except the Elvenprince. 

“Hír-nin,” the leader of the group began humbly. 

“What news do you have for me.” It came as more of a statement, though, despite his best efforts, questions now began buzzing in the Elvenking’s mind. For the first time in a long time, he was confused, and that confusion gave way to anger. 

Where was the prince? 

“Hír-nin,” the leader began, voice tense and nervous. The news he brought would obviously displease his king. “—Lord Elrond sends his greetings and fondest wishes.” The warrior paused. 

The anger that had been building up inside the Elvenking came out in a cold, sneering tone. “Does he?” He raised one thick brow in condescension. “That is news indeed,” he mocked, becoming more enraged by the moment for such useless pleasantries. “Perhaps in his good wisdom, Lord Elrond has told you where the Elvenprince has gotten to?” 

He had not meant to inquire after the child so soon, but once the question parted his lips, the Elvenking did not back down. 

The warriors all shifted, once more informing their king that he was not going to like what he was about to be told. And their stalling only made their lord’s wrath worse. “Prince Legolas…” the leader paused before forcing himself to go on. “—Prince Legolas has stayed on in Imladris for a…short time.”

Anger swiftly turned to fury, a fire burning deeply within the Elvenking’s chest. Yet while his eyes burned, his features remained ice cold, his frown quickly changing into a harsh scowl. Simultaneously he burned them with his gaze, yet froze them in place. “Has he?” his voice came out in a freezing sneer. “And on what authority did he stay? What right did he think he possessed to do this?” 

Still on their knees before the king, the elven warriors would not look up to meet their king’s enraged glare. Instead, the speaker of the group reached to his side and produced a letter. “H-hír nin, the prince asked that we give this to you.”

“Then give it to me,” the Elvenking punctuated every word maliciously. 

With trembling hands, the warrior stood and, keeping his head bowed, held up the message as an offering to his lord. It was beneath the Elvenking to stoop down to pick up anything, yet his curiosity had long since vanished and had, astonishingly, given way to impatience. It was a feeling not completely known to the golden haired elf, but he did not have time to dwell on the newness of the sensation. So instead, he bent over and swiped the message from the prince out of the hands of the shaky warrior. 

So preoccupied was he with knowing what the letter contained that the Elvenking forgot to dismiss the warriors. Instead, they were made to wait as the king looked over the contents of the message in silence. But the Elvenking hardly noticed them. In fact, everything around him began to fade with each passing word. And for the first time in thousands of years, for the first time since any could rightly remember, the Elvenking became completely undone. Undone for any and all in the kingdom to see. 

The coldness of his face vanished and the fire in his eyes was extinguished completely. The fair face that once held authority and fury dissolved into open shock swiftly turning into despair. And before any knew what was happening, the Elvenking, pillar of strength within the Realm of Greenwood, was shaking, face having gone stark white. And when next he looked up, it was not the Elvenking that everyone saw. 

Standing up from his throne suddenly, all present bowing their heads low in reverence, Thranduil did not notice those that yet lingered. Without thought, he rushed down the stairs of the throne and hurried down the bridge, away from the warriors, from the guards, from everyone. His mind, usually so collected, compartmentalized and focused, was in complete and utter disarray. 

Without thinking, his feet took him outside of the Halls and into the woods. Thranduil began looking around in vain, as though he could find Legolas out there, hiding. He knew the elfling was not here, not in Mirkwood at all, but he could not help but search anyway. Legolas had to be here! He should not still be in Imladris, he should be here! 

Thranduil began running, running as fast as his legs could carry him and even just a little bit faster. His robes were discarded on the ground with little thought, and his crown only became a nuisance that he shed as well. He did not know how long he ran, how much time had passed in the world, for it felt like an eternity. And when he realized the woods were growing darker, that the pathway was becoming blocked with thorns and other twisted plant life, without stopping, he leapt into the trees and continued his mad dash into the wilderness. Had he been more aware of himself, he might have cursed for being nearly completely unarmed, only having a dagger at his side and a knife in his boot. But as it was, he did not think about that. His mind was focused on one thing and one thing only. 

Eventually, when within the middle of the forest, there stood the tallest tree in Mirkwood, an old beech. As agile and light as his people were wont to be, Thranduil climbed to the very top until his head rose above the tree canopy and the world was before him. From there, he turned his attention west, straining his eyes in the night to see what he desperately desired. 

He could not. 

Fear and panic gripped at the usually hard heart, and an overwhelming sense of horror held the Elvenking tightly. No, not the Elvenking, just Thranduil. Just a father. 

“Legolas, what have you done?” he whispered in the night, tears standing in his eyes, waiting to be released. 

While the Elvenking of Mirkwood might have been arrogant, somewhat selfish in his desire to serve his people and his people only, always cold, there was and always had been one exception in his life that could change his indifference into attention. One being that could turn his impartial, dispassionate features into a kind, warm smile. One elf that had given him more drive, more motivation to carry on in the darkening world and not fade away or sail as so many other of their kind had. 

Deep down Legolas was why Thranduil did everything he had as the Elvenking. His power had been built up more for the sake of protecting his son than anything else, his wisdom of the forest expanded in his desire to teach and guard his child. His indomitable will was a shield his son could fall back behind when needed, and his stern composure was to buffer the child from the harshest realities of the world as he had grown. 

But now Legolas was gone. Now the child had stepped out completely from the safety of his father’s wing and out into the open world. A world beyond Thranduil’s control. A world he could not sense, could not communicate with as he could Mirkwood. A world where the Elvenking was powerless. 

Panic seized the proud elf’s heart once more, and to his amazement, he discovered his was panting, nearly hyperventilating. His hands found their way into his hair, and he began pulling, as if it could help him think, help him discover a way to bring his child back to him, to make this all not true. 

But it was true. Legolas was not here, nor would his son be returning any time soon. 

Without his leave, Thranduil’s eyes turned southeast, and a chill ran down his spine. 

Was this to be his son’s fate? Was this truly what the Valar willed? Ever since Legolas had been born, everything he had done was to protect the child, to guard him of the horrors that Thranduil himself had been made to see. But now it seemed his son was also made to go to the one place where no father desired his son to ever glimpse. Now, like his father and grandfather before him, Legolas would witness the horrors of the Black Lands. He would see Mordor. 

The tears he had been fighting off so viciously finally streamed down his face at the thought of his son, his only child, seeing what no elf was ever meant to. Legolas should not have gone on such a perilous journey. He should not have to endure the hardships of such an action. He was just a child, an elfling! Hadn’t Elrond seen that? Legolas, despite everything that had befallen him in his young life, had remained a light, pure spirit! Thranduil had seen to that, had fought to retain as much of his son’s innocence as he could. He’d tainted himself to give the child a chance to remain virtuous. 

But now, after all his hard work, after sacrificing so much, after doing all he could to protect his only child, Legolas was going off on the most perilous journey taken in this Third Age. His pure, young son was going out into a harsh, cruel world where his father could not help him. Was he ready? Would he survive? 

“Dear Valar,” Thranduil sobbed, clutching the branches tightly lest he fall, even while his legs felt shaky. “Watch over my son,” he prayed into the night, staring up at the stars. “Please. Please protect him!” And it hurt his pride to admit that he could not. Not any longer. 

For the first time in a very long time, the mighty Elvenking of Mirkwood was completely and utterly powerless. Powerless at the time, in the one moment, where he needed to be strong, needed his power the most. For the first time in a long time, the great Elvenking was seized with such fear, he was uncertain he would ever be able to recover from its heavy blow. 

Would he ever see his son again? Only time would tell. Thranduil would be forced to remain patient as for the first time in many years, he would be forced to face the future truly and completely alone.

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Note: …I have no idea what this is. It started out as a character study of PJ’s Elvenking. I stress PJ, because if you actually read Tolkien’s The Hobbit, the Elvenking is actually almost completely opposite of how he is portrayed in the movie. (I could rant on and on about how utterly wrong they got Thranduil in the movie, but I’ll spare you). But I did like Lee Pace, and a bitchy Elvenking does hold a certain appeal…though solidly, I believe the character is not an asshole. 
> 
> Anyway, I started out trying to figure out the reasons why he could be such an ass in movie-verse, and then one thing led to another and…well…here you are. Weird how I sort of meshed up Movie!Thranduil and more of a Book!Legolas. Thanks for reading!


End file.
